


Consequence

by paxnirvana



Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxnirvana/pseuds/paxnirvana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sanji's chivalry has dire results.</p><p>A survivor's tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Zoro

Arlong was long dead, but for just two of them - Nami in particular - to run into remnants of his nakama who had rejoined their sizeable group of bretheren on the Grand Line was just sheer filthy bad luck.

Chopper can't tell them how long this stage might last, but it's already been a week. Sanji had obviously made it back to the ship while in deep shock, Chopper had said, his face twisted with grief and helpless dismay. Seemingly normal, but really not. Hiding everything beneath flip comments and a pretend calm; using up every last drop of his vast strength to keep himself together until he and Nami were safe. And he had; when they'd first reached the ship Zoro had barely known anything was wrong other than by the tattered state of their clothing. But the cook was paying for that display now that the numbness, the detachment had fallen away and everything that had happened to him - and to Nami - fell in on him.

"Don't fucking touch me!" Sanji screams, but Zoro's arms close hard around him anyway as he ignores the blood slipping down his own face from where another barely-dodged kick has grazed his nose. Even barefoot, the cook's kicks are lethal, he's found. He doesn't retaliate but just holds on when Sanji knees him in the thigh and stomps hard on his other foot, sending them both staggering into the wall.

"I'll kill you all!" Sanji howls. Zoro takes the impact on his shoulder with a grunt, arms still wrapped tightly around the other man who is now cursing him and calling him names - but not the names he usually calls him - things like _fish bastard_ and _fucking perverted eel_ and _goddamn scaly freak_! And Zoro absorbs the shudders, the wails, the hands driving as rock-hard fists into his haramaki. It's those blows that rock him most of all, but not for the pain they bring. But for what they say louder than the curses about the cook's agony. He says nothing as the words finally crumble into sobs and the blows stop and Sanji is left trembling and sweating in his arms.

This is not the way he'd hoped to get the cook there. Not for these reasons. Not like this.

"They're already dead, moron," he offers into the brittle silence, lips moving gently against sweat-soaked skin, struggling to make his voice sound as normal as possible despite the ache of helplessness, of useless fury in his throat. "You got most of them; Luffy and I killed the rest." And it is the truth. There is no one left to kill for this. No extra punishment to mete out to an enemy already dead. Nothing is left but the aftermath. For Sanji. For Nami who had been forced to watch him be tortured that way. And for the rest of them left now with brutalized, broken nakama to tend.

Zoro had finally had to chase Nami off. Make Usopp and Robin take her away and keep her away as her presence was only making things worse. Because for her sake the cook would piece his shattered composure back together by main force; talk and cook and laugh as if nothing had happened. And for Zoro, it was like shoving all three of his swords through his own guts to watch the other man do it, when the hollowness in his eyes, the twitch of narrow shoulders, the tremble in normally rock-steady chef's hands so clearly betrayed how far from right he was.

"They were going to kill her. I had to let them… it was the only way to protect her..." The hoarse, rasping reply isn't to his own words. Instead it's the pointless explanation. Again. The one he wishes he could make the other let go of, because he never needed it anyway, and his only response can be one that means nothing yet in this raw stage, no matter how heart-felt and true it is. "I know you had to," he says anyway, hoping this time it will finally sink in.

Sanji flinches. Shudders. Sucks in a hitched breath. "Why didn't they just kill me?!" The wailing cry becomes a scream and then Sanji is writhing in his arms again, eyes wild, face flushed. Not seeing him again. "Don't you fucking touch me! You bastards! Let her go!" And this time Zoro lets Sanji bring them to the floor, against the wall, trapping the far thinner man on his lap, between his legs, wrapping the shuddering body tight, then tighter in his arms as Sanji's shouts become sobs again, weaker this time, but more desperate. And they're deep, wet, grinding sounds that Zoro can feel reflected through his own ribs, shaking them both.

He presses his forehead down on sweat-damp golden hair, squeezing his eyes closed tightly to stop the moisture there from escaping as he grits out the words, "No. I won't let you go, shitty cook," again.

And he'll say them as many times as he has to. Hold him like this and wait. Forever, if need be.

Until the other man finally hears him.


	2. Sanji

He wakes from a cold, dark place where maybe something thicker than water had filled his ears and maybe his lungs for a long time, drowning him in regrets and things he never wants to think of again. But he is warm now, and there is a sound beneath his ear that throbs steadily on, comforting him.

He is tired even though he's just awakened. He feels faintly sticky, as if he's slept a long while in his clothes or drank far too much the night before. But he doesn't have a headache – that he knows of yet – and at least he isn't being strangled by a forgotten, un-removed tie.

But he isn't wearing his belt either. Or his shoes. He never takes his shoes off when he drinks.

His eyes slip open a little bit then and he is less surprised than he should be to find that he is lying on top of the shitty swordsman. The hard line of a muscled shoulder and part of a broad chest greets his bleary gaze. They both appear to be sprawled on the thin mattress generally saved for the wounded or their rare guests, now set up in the back of the kitchen, beside the barrels of water and ale. A soft blanket is tossed over his back, covering him to his knees. His feet are entwined with the swordsman's, one of his legs even lying between the other man's.

Pretty compromising position, all told. He wonders idly just how much he had to have drunk to end up like this. The hangover promises to be a doozie. As he thinks this, his hand curls beneath the one he can now feel covers it, fingernails scraping gently over warm skin stretched across hard ribs, making the other flinch slightly.

"Don't tickle," the gruff voice says beneath his ear, the hand over his flexing, but not moving away.

He frowns. Takes a deeper breath, drawing in a scent that's both far too clear – when was his last cigarette anyway? – and far too familiar. Sweat and soft musk and metal and the remnants of sunshine. Even more disturbing, this scent relaxes him. So he tenses slightly on purpose and lifts his head. Or tries to, only to find there is a hand cupping the back of his neck, an arm curved across his back, holding him down.

"Oi, let me up, shit marimo," he says, but his voice is rough, hollow. As if he's been yelling at Luffy for stealing food or smoking non-stop for days. But he already knows he hasn't had a cigarette for longer than that.

"Stop," the other man murmurs and he subsides, oddly not wanting to move all that badly anyway just yet.

But some things can't be let slide that easily. "At least tell me why before I kick your ass across the deck for this..."

There is a sudden harsh sound in the other's chest. A catch that he might call a sob if he didn't know the swordsman better than that. But the other's voice when it comes is only tinted with familiar irritation. "Bastard cook, just try it."

The hand on his neck slides up then, fingers burying deep in his hair. He is crushed even closer for a fleeting moment that might just be his imagination before the swordsman pushes him back with heavy hands on his shoulders, and stares calmly into his face.

There are dark circles under the swordsman's eyes. As if he hadn't been sleeping at all. Which is frankly impossible, he knows. "You drool in your sleep," the green haired idiot says, mouth twitching slightly.

"Like hell I do," he flares instantly, rising voice still strangely rough. "And why the hell would you even know that?!"

"Is he okay, Zoro?" they both hear from beyond the concealing barrels, which, come to think of it, are usually in this spot here, against the wall. It's Chopper's voice, sounding tired and concerned. Sanji flushes slightly. Why is Chopper there? And why is the marimo acting all casual about being caught in what's essentially a bed with Sanji like this?

There should be flying swords and curse words for this kind of thing. He wonders vaguely why he's not doing the same already himself.

"Yeah. Back to being just as annoying as usual," his impromptu mattress says, mouth twisting slightly even as the moron's gaze stays fixed on his. And there is something that looks like relief there, even if it's quickly hidden. He pushes himself upright, expression openly puzzled now, moving slower when his arms quiver like boiled pasta, betraying him. He pretends not to notice that Zoro's hand is still in the small of his back, steadying him, because he'd far rather that than fall face-first back onto the other man's chest again. His weakness is surprising. His extreme need to take a piss less so.

"I hope it was a good party at least," he mutters sourly, shifting his legs slowly free of the swordsman's. At least the bastard appears fully dressed, with everything but his own boots on. If the haramaki had been gone, Sanji was going to have to consider how difficult it might be to strangle the thick-necked idiot with his bare feet. He wasn't using his hands for that, of course. As he moves away, catching the blanket slipping down around him, he flexes his fingers carefully, frowning. Especially since they seem sore for some reason.

"No party," Zoro mutters just as Chopper peers cautiously around the corner of the barrels at them. And strangely the little reindeer-man doctor looks just as weary as the swordsman does, his antlers even almost seeming to droop, but he smiles brightly when he sees Sanji blinking back at him in confusion.

"Oh, it's good to have you lucid again, Sanji."

"Lucid?" He frowns, realization dawning and prompting him to pull the blanket closer around his shoulders. It's just not as warm as before, though, and he shivers slightly. "Hey, was I sick?"

Chopper shifts uneasily, glancing past him at Zoro. Sanji pins the marimo with a sharp look too, wanting answers and wondering why Chopper seems to be looking to Zoro for them. He's the doctor, after all, not the marimo-head.

"Yeah, you were pretty out of it. And now you're better." The dark eyes hood briefly, pinning him with a sidelong look. "'Bout time too, shit cook."

"Did anyone else get sick?" he asks, suddenly anxious. "Nami-san? Robin-chan?"

Zoro just shakes his head, his expression oddly tense. But, "Oh, Nami's much better n--," Chopper says, even as the swordsman's eyes widen and he jerks upright, lunging forward, too late, to clamp a hand over the startled reindeer's mouth, dragging them both to the floor for his trouble in an awkward heap. Sanji just shivers, and stares at them both sprawled there in front of him, wondering why he knows, somewhere deep inside, that Nami isn't exactly all right either... but that at least she isn't hurt.

Like he was.

He closes his eyes. Sucks in a deep breath even as he feels the swordsman's arms wrap firmly around his shoulders again. His head is tucked beneath the other man's chin in a move that seems far too practiced and familiar for it to be the first time it has happened. And yet he's sure he'd remember Zoro holding him like this before if it had, but he doesn't.

He shocks himself some by not immediately shoving the other man away. Blames it on his noodle-like arms. But he can feel the swordsman's heart beat again this way and the steady, strong sound makes the icy, welling of darkness inside him subside again.

It's a memory, he realizes. One like that barren rock in East Blue. And just as dark and cold and terrible with despair.

He'll have to face it sometime – he knows himself too well and knows he can't avoid it for long – but not just yet. Not while the stupid swordsman has his arms around him and Chopper is murmuring quiet, if faintly distressed, apologies to Zoro but all Sanji can really hear is the steady _lub lub lub_ of the idiot's heart drowning out everything except the dawning realization that he is actually glad to still be alive.


	3. Nami

The shouting and crashing finally stopped a day or so ago, falling into what is, to her, a far more daunting if not terrifying silence. But still Zoro and Chopper won't let her back into the galley. Because the sound of her footsteps might start him back up again, Usopp explains gently while still holding her back to keep her from braining the idiot swordsman; Sanji's always had an excellent ear for everyone's tread, after all. Especially hers.

Zoro is more blunt. He tells her to keep the fuck out until he says otherwise.

Oddly, it's Zoro's crudeness that convinces her it's better to comply even over Chopper's shrill orders for limited visitors or Usopp's more reasoned words of caution. Not because the swordsman intimidates her, but because she finally notices that the lurking darkness in his eyes that he pretends is anger and impatience is actually _worry_ , or even… a touch of fear.

And no matter how badly she wants to see Sanji-kun smile at her in that goofy, provoking, fatuous way of his again -- just like he always has, always will --, she now thinks Zoro needs the cook ready to argue and snap at him again even more.

She was very much taken by surprise by Zoro's instant willingness to help the man he usually fought with so viciously. While she knows the swordsman's aversion to and mistrust of women runs deep, Nami hasn't considered that most of it is just because he has a different preference; she's been more than half convinced he really is just a complete asshole. Somehow, realizing he actually likes men that way instead makes his scorn a touch easier to take.

It's still hell-all annoying, however.

But not as annoying as fact that she can't seem to stop crying. The tears just roll down her cheeks, the wind across them chilling her face while she's checking their course out here on deck and trying not to think about what's going on in the ominously silent room behind her. She focuses on guiding them ever further away from that miserable island instead.

In her cabin, she has a map of the island that she found in the town… before. She's not sure if she'll make one of her own yet or not. She may have to someday, to complete her World Map. But not now. Not for a long while.

And definitely not until she hears his voice again -- asking her what she wants to drink in that cloying, syrupy way of his; prettily begging her for permission to use a few of her precious mikan in one of his fabulous meals; declaring, with flared nostrils and extravagant flourish, what a lovely shade of emerald her new blouse is, and how perfectly it compliments her fiery hair - and it wipes out the memory of his awful, hideous, _unnatural_ silence during that seemingly infinite hour caught in Arlong's men's clutches.

It should have been her instead.

But as long as he was alive, she knew it _couldn't_ have been. Because he would have fought to his own death to save her.

She knows this. In her gut. In her heart. Feels it burn her with a gnawing guilt and the old, bitter helplessness, even as she is pragmatic enough to understand that it just couldn't have gone any other way and leave him alive. Stubborn, proud, _stupid_ man. Because he could have taken most of the mermen out on his own if he'd wanted -- without her as their hostage, they would have fallen easily to his strength. But he felt he needed to distract them first so he could find the chance to free _her_ without harm. It was the only way his own personal code would let him do it.

Still, for once, his silly romantic fantasies and posturing pretenses had fallen away. He'd been deadly serious. Because these enemies held a grudge against her personally for being the instrument of Arlong's fall.

So he'd drawn them to himself on purpose… taunted them… dared them. And they had responded…damn them… those mermen had… _gleefully_ …

They forced her to watch.

He had fallen silent once his goading had guaranteed their full attention was fixed on him instead of her, his face hidden from her view behind that heavy fall of golden hair. And while the mermen had taunted him loudly with what they would do to him as they bound him, stripped him, called him names -- making crude promises for his death, taunting her with his surrender -- none of it had registered on her.

Somehow, she kept expecting the single loud report of a pistol to shatter the air. But it didn't come. Instead there was the harsh slap of flesh on flesh; the involuntary grunts as they drove the breath out of him; the satisfied groan from each mermen as he finished before jerking roughly out, only to shuffle away to make room for the next.

Once they started, he made not a single sound by his own will.

Once they started, she could hear no sound but those he did make.

Horrible, quiet, invasive sounds. Torn from him unwillingly. Drowned out only by the grinding crunch of her own teeth biting deep into the wooden bar they'd finally tied in her mouth as a gag.

Later, Chopper had carefully picked dozens of splinters out of her inner cheek and lip, her tongue; some had even pierced clear through. She'd never noticed they were there.

She wipes at her smooth, if damp, cheek now with a palm, lifts her chin to look out over the surface of the dark, choppy sea they sail. It is leaden beneath a thick layer of iron-gray clouds and the wind whips froth onto the top of every other wave, but she senses no storm approaching. Just fast sailing weather, if cool. She has her winter jacket on, but still shivers.

She is grateful that single shot never came, even if it makes it selfish that he is alive and suffering. Even if what he did for her makes living as they were, as nakama, impossible now. Because where there is life, there is always hope. And tomorrow. And dreams. And friends - her thoughts suddenly touch on Zoro and his changed focus on the cook -…or even more. Anything can happen.

Especially in this strange, rag-tag, impossible crew of Monkey D. Luffy's.

Her gaze shifts automatically to find him. Luffy is on the figurehead, coatless, rubbery shoulders hunched, straw hat carefully secured under his chin against the wind as he stares out to sea. He has said little to her over the past week, but instead wraps her silently and gently in his warm embrace whenever she looks into his deep, waiting eyes.

Oddly, the well of Luffy's silence is comforting where Sanji's is not. But she can't spend all her time in Luffy's arms. She's the map-maker and the navigator; she has important jobs to do...

Suddenly, the door behind her creaks. She stiffens where she stands, aware of Usopp's head swiveling around instantly as if on a rope, his eyes wide and hopeful, his mouth closed by anxious teeth; Luffy does the same too, his dark gaze piercingly intent even from half the ship away. Only Robin looks up calmly from where she has been reading on a stool set in the corner of the forecastle out of the wind, her expression serene.

Then Chopper scampers out onto the walkway and clings with barely concealed hopeful eagerness to the railing across from her. Her gaze is drawn back to the galley doorway where a lean shape in a familiar black coat now stands, one hand braced casually on the door frame. He has no cigarette in his mouth, and that fact is briefly disquieting, but while his face is drawn with faint lines of strain, his visible eye is bright and his expression is calm.

Sanji sees her at once, of course. Stills immediately, his face paling, fingers twitching slightly as he sways in place. In the shadows behind his shoulder - close, but not too close - she can see Zoro scowling at her. If he keeps that up much longer, she'll raise his interest half a percent on principle alone.

But, "Ah, there you are, Sanji-kun," she says as briskly as she can manage, lifting one hand to swipe again at the stubborn moisture on her face as she gives him a small smile. "Don't you think cocoa would be the perfect drink for a day like today?"

For a moment even the wind seems to pause, causing her heart to shrink, then his lips lift in an honest smile as his eye curves happily too. "Of course, Nami-swan! Right away! Hot Chocolate with whipped cream for the loveliest of ladies! Robin-chwan too!" His gaze flashes across the rest of the upturned faces watching them both as he drops his voice into a familiar, almost sneering tone, lip curling on cue. "And the rest of you bums want some too, I suppose?"

His voice isn't quite as bright or strong yet, lacking it's full lilt and swoon, but she can still hear it - even through the instant chorus of boisterous agreement and pleas for extra marshmallows and peppermint sprinkles on top - he's _there_ again. At last. Coming back to them all.

Her chest aches a little, still, but the wind dries her cheeks for the last time.


	4. Sanji

Almost everyone treats him exactly the same and it's still the same routines every day and yet… it isn't and they don't and the tinge of melancholy won't leave him for what was and can never be again.

Truthfully, he's not sure he'd go back to the way it was before, if given the chance. There's a kind of peace obtained by going that far inward, to the darkest, coldest, most desperate part of yourself and returning sane that few ever experience. He'd thought nearly starving to death had been his one trip there already for a lifetime, but that had been just himself at risk. This time had been for the protection of someone else.

It has occurred to him that maybe the shitty old man would understand the difference. If he were ever to talk to the old fart about something like this, that is. Which he won't. He threads his hands into the long hair beside his temples and leans his head forward until his elbows hit the tabletop, releasing a slow sigh when they do. There's no sense giving the old bastard more reasons than he already thinks he has to keep treating him like a child.

Nami knows the difference too. Even though they have never spoken directly about it, he knows that she is honestly grateful. Even if she still protests – and then abuses - the way he fawns over her and makes her special drinks and praises her beauty. She, more than anyone else on the ship, understands that the real choice he made that day was to stay alive.

He still doesn't regret protecting her that way; he only regrets she had to witness it.

Surviving the whole experience has enriched him a bit too, he thinks sometimes. Not that he's gotten all Zen or weak or overly introspective or anything, it's just that he's fully aware now in that calm place inside his heart of just exactly how far he can be pushed and survive.

It's a hell of a lot further than he'd ever imagined it to be.

But survival has its price and it's not an experience he wants to revisit. It takes someone more resilient in both spirit as well as flesh, like Luffy, to endure that kind of torment more than once and hope to stay sane.

Not that Luffy isn't the living example of life lived to extremes anyway, but Luffy is Luffy. Their Captain is nearly a force of nature who daunts even the shitty swordsman sometimes. None of them ever seriously believe they're on par with him anyway -- but Sanji thinks he might have come close that day.

It's a wonder he's even moderately sane, yet he feels more and more like his old self every day. But still, he figures, there must be one irreparable crack left in his head for doing _that_ with the shitty swordsman last night. He leans his head further into his hands, shoulders shaking slightly as he laughs bitterly to himself.

Because until last night, they'd slept together peacefully -- and platonically -- wherever nightfall found them. On deck, on the couch or the carpet of the men's bunkroom, here in the galley. But always with his head on the broad chest, his ear pressed over the calm, steady beat of the other's heart. This arrangement had simply continued on from the first time he woke there after those darkest days, and wasn't something either of them ever brought up in their still endless sniping battles over trivial things that they indulged in during the daylight hours.

Until last night. When he'd lifted his head after making some careless comment and glanced up quickly enough to surprise Zoro with eyes fixed on him, his aspect odd. He'd never seen Zoro look like that before. Fascinated, he'd identified acceptance and patience and something else that it took him a moment to name in the other's gaze before Zoro looked away.

Longing.

"Why didn't you say something sooner, idiot?" he'd breathed.

"Would you have heard me out?" had come the quiet reply.

He'd had to think a moment on that before shaking his head, knowing by the strange echoing thump beneath his ribs that a flip answer wouldn't do here. Would never do again between them in the dark and together like that. "Probably not," he admitted quietly. Then he swung his leg across the swordsman's hips to straddle him, hands flattening on the familiar territory of his chest, the heat beneath his thighs not nearly so. "But I will now."

"Damn cook," Zoro had muttered even as Sanji leaned down with a smug smile and pressed his lips over the other's.

" _Best_ damn cook, you mean," he had whispered against Zoro's mouth, then added sharply after the other's only response was an annoyed snort, "Put your hands on me already, you bastard."

There had been a lot of hands – his own too – involved then. As well as lips and tongues and teeth. Fumbling fingers. Rough grips. Bared chests and torn buttons. Then a slick, heated joy experienced in the greedy, welcome slide of body against body. Until hands joined over straining flesh, squeezing firmly, driving them higher, together. Every motion tight, hard, wanted.

They'd stained the green haramaki with their mingled release while he shouted out his pleasure into a devouring, eager mouth. Then he'd laughed and laughed afterwards until tears streamed down his face over the disgruntled yet blatantly smug expression of the other man upon discovering the size of the sticky mess.

The simple, bright joy of that moment had been without shadow or shame. He'd slept deep and dreamlessly afterwards sprawled across Zoro, head tucked beneath the other man's chin. He'd woken in the same place, inner contentment intact despite the awkwardness of a morning after made even more awkward by the painful discovery that some of their – more private – hair was quite thoroughly stuck together.

Yet now, it's hours later and he sits in the galley alone, his head cradled in his hands as the carefully buried memories ambush him and uncertainty and shame gain sway. He'd just been trying to do his job – cooking dinner for all his nakama --, not paying attention to much save that. Even humming a little to himself as he worked on it, wondering idly if the haramaki had finally dried enough for Zoro to put it back on yet. Because, he'd even thought with a smile, the moron practically looked stripped naked without it. Not Zoro-like at all.

It was then darkness pounced. Memory and pain and panic seizing him in an unbreakable grip.

He has no idea why the idea of Zoro stripped of his signature attire has triggered it, but now the memories of touch after foul, invasive, hated touch that he dared not refuse swirl through him. Memories of pain… searing, splitting pain that never stopped… will ever stop… or the laughter… the taunts… the scorn…

He is shaking. His hands worst of all. It's that tremor that has forced him from his work of preparing dinner to his seat at the table now, and that only makes the shame sharper.

The door behind him opens and he hunches forward, burying his hands deeper into his hair, his shoulders rounding. He can't face Luffy's eager greed at the moment. Or Chopper's reflexive fussing. Feels as if he might break if he hears anyone ask for food he can't trust himself to prepare.

"It's not ready yet," he snaps. "Get out!"

But boots thump across the floor toward him not hooves, and the heavy hand that closes around one wrist and hauls him off the bench and into hard, unforgiving arms isn't the tentative, concerned touch he expected. Though he should have. Zoro hasn't been far from his side since they left that accursed island, he dimly realizes. The swordsman… always there… waiting… watching…

"What the hell is going on, cook?" The harsh demand breaks his composure. He feels as if the broken shards of himself are raining down inside his chest, sharp and deadly.

"Ho-how long?" he demands, clutching at the swordsman's biceps with a brutal grip. " _How long_ have you wanted me?"

"What the hell?!"

From beneath his bangs he grits the next question out, the words like poison even in his own ears, killing him slowly, "Or is it just because they made me a woman to you?"

"No! _Hell_ no!" Zoro flinches violently, tries to shove him away, but his grip is too tight. "Don't be a moron!"

"Then when?!" His shaking is so bad now his teeth clatter on the words. He clenches his jaw and nearly shouts. "Tell me!"

Zoro's face is pale and strained with a mix of horror and reluctance and embarrassment. His jaw works, the muscle bulging dangerously for a moment as his gaze flickers away and he bites back something. But Sanji won't let himself look away, waiting like a condemned man for the truth. Waiting for the pity… the knife in the back… the black pit… but then Zoro swallows hard, looks up and his hot, angry gaze bores deep into Sanji's eyes.

"Since Kokoyashi Village, shitty cook!" the swordsman spits out, looking as if he wants to punch him instead.

Sanji freezes. Eyes wide, mouth slack. Zoro's hands flash up and clamp around his face, forcing his gaze to stay locked with that furious glare.

"Since _then_ … you blind girl-crazy idiot." And Zoro's mouth crashes down on his and the shattering feeling inside of him melts under a surge of wet, devouring heat.

The swordsman holds nothing back, driving him back against the table, bending him over the surface, devouring his mouth with full strength. Bruising his lips. Drawing blood. Hard hands grip him punishingly tight, but it's nothing _nothing_ like it was in that room.

Because this is Zoro. His nakama. The man he will fight back to back with before any other.

It was never the pain he feared… only nothingness in the eyes of those who mean the most to him.

And he is not nothing as the steady heartbeat that called him back to sanity proves now by how it is pounding wildly against him. Pounding because of him. Proving the idiot marimo has always wanted him but was too stubborn-stupid to say so before. Until it was almost too late.

He winds his legs behind the swordsman's back. Wraps his arms around the other's neck. Holds on tight even as he feels a warm trickle cross his cheeks and fall into his hair. Who it comes from doesn't matter.

Because it's not too late and things don't have to be the same.

They can be better.

-fin-


End file.
